


Tinker Tailor Super-Soldier Spy

by littlerhymes



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cold War, Gen, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2371802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve survives World War II. In 1972, he and Director Carter team up with a young Nick Fury to investigate a mission gone wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tinker Tailor Super-Soldier Spy

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [SQ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/proteinscollide/) for being an awesome beta reader and a patient friend!
> 
> Fury's date of birth hasn't been officially confirmed in MCU canon as far as I know (though it has been referenced in promotional material) so for this story I've assumed he was born in 1948, like Samuel L. Jackson.

**1972**

Steve runs every day. 

At the age of fifty-three, he's still as fit as he ever was, the miles falling away beneath his shoes. The paths up here are long and winding, curving around hillsides and through valleys and past endless trees. Some days, he runs for hours without seeing another person. 

Just after he gets back to the house one day, sweating slightly, the phone starts ringing - the secure line, not the ordinary one. He picks up.

"Rogers," says the cool, calm voice on the other end, as though it's been a week rather than three months. "How are you?"

"Director Carter," he says, without any surprise whatsoever. There's only a handful of people who know this number exists, even less with the authorisation to use it. "What's up?"

"We sent a three-man team into Minsk two days ago. Two are dead and the status of the third is unknown," she says, just as blunt. "I'm sending a helicopter to your location now and there's a jet already waiting."

"Yes, ma'am," he says. 

"Good luck, Steve," Peggy says, in a warmer tone. They are still friends, after all, when they're not Director and Agent. "Come back safe."

"When I get home," he says, "I think you'll owe me dinner at least."

"Done," she says immediately. "How's the best steak in DC sound to you?"

"Sounds great. I'm going to hold you to that one, Peggy."

When the chopper lands less than an hour later, Steve's ready and waiting on the porch, duffel bag at his feet and shield slung on his back. The noise is near-deafening; good thing his nearest neighbours are five miles distant. 

After he's climbed up and belted in, the clean-cut SHIELD agent assigned to the case sticks out a hand. "Agent Alexander Pierce," he says, his voice crackling through the earpiece. "It's an honour to work with you, sir."

Steve just nods and shakes back, hoping Pierce isn't going to be one of those agents who asks for his autograph. Thankfully, he's not. Pierce is quiet on the helicopter, then concise and professional when he briefs Steve on the mission during the stealth jet flight over to Europe. 

"It was meant to be a simple extraction," Pierce explains, laying out the files. "This man was their target: Doctor Ivan Kavalchuk, a medical researcher supposedly working on a top secret Soviet project. He contacted us, offering classified information in exchange for protection and diplomatic immunity. Our guys were meant to just scoop him up and get him back to the States safely."

"But something went wrong," Steve says, turning the pages of the SHIELD agent personnel files. _Fury, Nicholas J._ he reads at the top of one: mid-twenties, military background, sharpshooter. He's the most junior member of the team but already has a long list of successful missions to his name. 

"That's right," Pierce says. "We know they arrived safely and successfully made it to the rendezvous point. But after that..."

"No sign at all?" Steve says. 

"Two bodies showed up yesterday. We're still working on firm identification but I'm afraid none of us are holding out much hope. But the third member of the team was taken alive," Pierce says, showing him the display. There's one green blip on screen, the coordinates pointing to a military bunker on the outskirts of Minsk. "As far as we can tell, according to intercepted transmissions, this is where he's been taken."

Steve turns the last page of the file. There's a head-shot attached to the back of the folder; Fury stares at the camera with a slightly narrowed stare, humourless and grim. 

If he's still alive... Well. Either way, they'll find him.

It's been three months since Steve's last mission, two years since officially retiring from the public eye. Within SHIELD, the generation of men and women he originally trained and fought alongside are all long gone. Those who lived went on to desk jobs, management positions, the civilian life, parenthood, retirement. Other lives. New lives.

Only Steve is the same - and he is, physically, exactly the same. A few more lines around his eyes and mouth, rougher hands, but otherwise he could've stepped out of Doctor Erskine's chamber yesterday. They'll never know if this is what Erskine intended or anticipated; Steve remains the sole subject in a longitudinal study of indefinite duration. 

Meanwhile new SHIELD agents come up the ranks every day, each group younger and less familiar and more wide-eyed than the one before. The moment came when he looked around at his latest team and realised they were strangers to him, and he to them. Soon after that, he handed in his notice and took the house in upstate New York. 

(And two weeks after that, the SHIELD phone rang for his first 'last' mission; and it's kept ringing ever since.)

Pierce is from after Steve's time. He's in his early thirties at most, a transfer from the State Department with a background in diplomacy. So he probably knows who Steve is and he's heard the stories - but as he watches Steve get ready for the mission, he seems uneasy, as though he's not entirely sure what to believe.

As they get close to the target site, Pierce watches Steve suit up and he finally asks, almost apologetically, "I know, I had my instructions, and the Director wanted you to take this one solo. But... what happens if you need back-up?"

Steve hits the door release and the wind comes rushing in noisily. "It's okay. I probably won't need back-up," he says, as reassuringly as he can. 

"But what if you do?" Pierce says.

"Tag," Steve says. "You're it." Then he drops out of the plane, leaving Pierce and his questions far behind.

*

Nick waits in the chair, hands bound behind his back, ankles shackled. 

He's not sure how long he's been waiting in the dark. His ribs ache and he hasn't had a drink in hours; but there's nothing to see anyway except the thin line of light from beneath the solid steel door.

Then from outside - he hears in rapid succession raised voices, a spray of gunfire, followed by the _thud_ of something heavy being thrown up against the door. A strangled cry. _Thud, thud._ Silence. 

Nick tenses. The door swings open and the lights come on. He squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden brightness, hears footsteps hurrying across the concrete floor and an American voice saying, "Fury? My name is Rogers. I'm gonna get you out of here." _Snap, snap_ and the chains fall from his wrists and ankles. There's a strong arm around his shoulders and pulling him to his feet. 

His mouth is parched, his voice nearly gone, but Nick shakes his head and croaks out the words anyway. "Trap," he says, in a hoarse whisper. "This is a trap."

"Then we'd better hurry," Roger says, seemingly unfazed, half-dragging and half-carrying Nick out of the room. 

As the feeling starts coming back into his hands and feet, and his vision starts to adjust, Nick finally gets a good look at the shield Rogers is carrying and his familiar profile. The picture snaps into focus: it's Captain America. 

They make their way through the compound, passing the bodies of Nick's captors, all knocked out or groaning or dead. Rogers snags one of their discarded semi-automatics and gives it to Nick as soon as he's regained enough feeling in his hands and legs to be useful; he feels better, steadier, with the familiar weight of it in his hands.

They're not far from the exit, and Nick's starting to think that maybe they're going to get out of this as easily as Rogers must've got in - 

Rogers reacts before Nick even sees the threat, pushing ahead of him and taking the hail of bullets from the soldiers ahead direct on his shield. Then Rogers is returning fire, barking at Nick to take cover around the corner. 

Nick flattens his back against the wall and thinks back, retracing their steps and what he's seen of the bunker in his days of captivity; there's got to be access for maintenance, and if they follow the piping back to the source... "Secondary exit," he says to Rogers, between bursts of gunfire. "I think I know where it is."

"Lead the way," Rogers says, simple as that.

Even inside SHIELD, Rogers is more a legend than a man. Nick has trained with the best - hell, he _is_ one of the best - but he's still taken aback at how effortlessly competent Rogers seems, how simple each situation becomes with Rogers at his side, even with Nick far from his peak. He wouldn't believe it if he hadn't just seen it: Steve Rogers and his damn shield moving faster and with more force than any other person alive. 

Not that it's entirely one-way traffic. When Nick snaps, "down," Rogers drops instantly and Nick's bullet takes out the hostile coming up behind him. Rogers pauses to acknowledge the save with a nod, and then he's rolling to his feet and they're moving on without hesitation. 

They work well together and only part of that is due to Rogers' superhuman abilities. There's just something that clicks, enabling them to make the right calls and read each other's signals like they've been working together months instead of minutes. Under different circumstances he might've been able to find the experience even enjoyable - knowing that the man at your back trusts you as much as you trust him. 

They clear the compound, room after room. It's all going so efficiently, which makes it all the more shocking when the masked man in black comes crashing down from the rafters and takes a swing hard enough to knock Rogers off his feet. 

The man's fist connects with Roger's shield but instead of the brutal crunch Nick expects to hear, there's the clear ring of metal against metal, and Rogers looks briefly dumbfounded as he goes sprawling across the room. 

Rogers doesn't stay down for long. "Go," he says to Nick, glancing quickly over his shoulder, and slides the transmitter across the floor in his direction. "Call for extraction. I'll follow."

Good soldier that he is, Nick just nods and catches the transmitter, pocketing it neatly. He looks back once, sees Rogers heading towards the masked man at a run, but is out of eyeshot and with hostiles of his own to deal with when the sound of gunfire and clash of metal begins. 

He takes down two, three, four enemy combatants and then he's up the maintenance ladder and outside into the night. It feels good to see sky again, even in the dark. There are still a few soldiers around, perimeter guards by the look of them - he takes them by stealth, and they go down easily enough. When the area's clear, Nick filches the keys to an armoured jeep from a knocked-out guard and barricades himself inside the vehicle where he fiddles with the transmitter, trying to raise Rogers' extraction team.

He's still trying to get something other than static when a figure limps into sight; Nick eases up when he sees the star on the shield gleaming, lowers the gun entirely when light falls on Rogers' face.

"Can't raise 'em," Nick says by way of greeting as Rogers swings up into the passenger seat. He holds up the transmitter. "You sure about your team's status, Captain? Hang on - we got one incoming," he says, abruptly switching gears as a figure stalks into view.

"But I threw him down an _elevator shaft_ ," Rogers says incredulously. And yeah, it's the same bad motherfucker with the metal arm. The guy must be something special - beyond special. Must be something like Rogers himself.

"I'll drive," Nick says, revving the engine. "You shoot." 

Right on cue, the masked man fires straight at them. The side window takes a bullet and spiderwebs into a thousand tiny cracks, but the surface holds. Nick steps on the gas and they're away with a screeching of wheels, while Rogers hangs out the side trading shot for shot. 

Up ahead, Nick sights heavy, barred gates. "Hold on," he shouts. They both brace themselves as he floors it and they head for the gates at full speed. 

Just before they make impact, he feels the jeep lurch as one of the back wheels is blown out by a bullet, and then they're slamming into the gates at an angle. The gates give; but the jeep skids and spins out of control and his head smashes against the window and -

*

Nick wakes up to the sound of a persistent mechanical hum, and a dull throbbing in his head. He hears lowered, angry voices.

"And you're sure you received nothing? Nothing at all?" says one, sounding vaguely familiar. "Because that transmitter is working fine, it's working _perfectly_."

"I'm sure, Captain. Something was blocking the signal," says the other. "And some _one_ was expecting us. Fury was right. This was a trap."

There's a pause. "He's awake."

He opens his eyes - or, more accurately, opens one of them. The left aches dully and won't open, and his right one blurry but clearing. So. He's on a stretcher in a plane, and the humming is the sound of a jet engine. They must be on their way back to the States.

"Fury," Rogers says. "How do you feel?"

"Been better," he says. He looks over at the other man, who looks like he could be the Captain's cousin. "Who's this?"

"Agent Alexander Pierce," the man says, and he has a voice to match the face, all-American golden boy. "I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, Agent Fury. As soon as we land we'll be ready to debrief you-"

Nick makes a cutting motion with his hand, weary and impatient. "Give me the bad news," he says. "My team. Agent DeRozan. Agent Lopez. Did they make it?"

Rogers shakes his head. So Pamela and Jose are dead. His fingers clench in the thin blanket, his heart clenching coldly.

"And what about the target?" he says roughly. "Did we at least retrieve the target?"

"I'm sorry," Pierce says. "By all appearances your mission was compromised before you even made it to the rendezvous."

Two of SHIELD's best are dead - two of his friends - and they haven't got a damn thing to show for it. 

"Last question," he says, through gritted teeth. "How bad is it? How bad is my eye?"

"You're going to need surgery and you might be out of action for a few weeks," Pierce says, "but our medic says you'll be fine."

"Great," Nick says. He closes the good eye and wills them to give him some space. "So you're saying I'll be back in the field in no time. That's just... _great_."

They take the hint and back off for the rest of the flight.

*

Nick loses track of Rogers after the plane lands, no doubt gone back to his lab or bunker or wherever the hell super-soldiers go between missions. But to his surprise, Pierce stays close by his side as the medics rush him to the transport.

Pierce strides along, looking crisp and well-pressed in his grey suit despite the long flight and the ungodly hour. He climbs up into the back of the van, after briefly conferring with the medics and getting the okay.

"You watching over me for any particular reason, Agent Pierce?" Nick says, as the van speeds them to the hospital. "Are you my minder now?"

Pierce pretends to brush lint from his lapel. "Do I need to have a reason?" 

"So I should assume you're doing this for the pleasure of my company."

Pierce just smiles.

At the hospital, the SHIELD specialist recommends immediate surgery and within the hour he's being prepped for the operating theatre.

When he wakes up in the ward hours later, goddamn Pierce is still goddamn there. Nick watches him from the corner of his right eye, leafing through the pages of a glossy magazine and looking like he could've stepped out from its pages. 

"You're that bored, huh?" Nick says at last, irritated but resigned. "At least tell me you went home in the meantime. Tell me you haven't been here all night."

He doesn't get a chance to see Pierce startled; he simply closes the magazine, sets it aside, looks up as though he was expecting Nick to wake at precisely this moment. Maybe he was. He's starting to get the feeling that Pierce isn't surprised by much. It pisses him off.

"What can I say?" Pierce says. "I had nothing better to do." He pours a glass of water, hands it over and watches Nick drink. 

"Seriously?" Nick says, after setting the glass aside. "Haven't you got family to go home to? Other agents to babysit?"

"I'm all on my own," Pierce says, "and none of the other agents are as interesting as you."

"Is that so," Nick says, deadpan. He sits up a little straighter, punching at the pillows while he tries to figure out Pierce's game.

"How's it feel? The doctor says your vision should be better than new in a week or so." 

Unexpectedly Pierce reaches towards him. His fingers are warm on Nick's jaw, tilting his head to the side to look at the bandage better. Maybe it's the last dregs of the anaesthesia or leftover tension from the mission - or maybe it's because he just hasn't gotten laid in a while - but the touch of Pierce's skin on his feels electric. 

Pierce pulls back, breaking contact, and Nick clears his throat. "Guess we'll find out, won't we?"

Pierce is smiling a little as though he's proven something to himself, as though he's gotten the better of Nick in some way. "So. You ever work with the Captain before?"

"Nope," he says, setting his jaw.

"Me either. But the things they say, right? The man's a legend. You ever hear those old war stories? Taking on armies single-handedly and surviving that plane crash in the Arctic?"

"Yep."

When he looks over, Pierce seems unperturbed. He leans back in his chair. "So. Do you want to hear a good one?"

After a moment, Nick sighs. "Sure." He rolls his eyes. "I ain't going anywhere. Guess you aren't either."

"Alright then." Pierce leans forward again. "So this was back in World War II, when my father was serving in the 101st…"

*

Steve meets Peggy at the restaurant. "This one's on you, right?" he says, pulling out her chair. 

Peggy is business-like and beautiful in her navy blue suit; there's grey at her temples now and it suits her. "Don't I always keep my promises, Steve?" she says, arching her eyebrows. "You earned this one."

They make small talk over the best steaks in DC. He tells her about the repairs he's been doing on the house, how the leaves on the trees are starting to change colour with the fall. She talks about her children and they share amazement at how time flies, with her youngest already in her final year at college.

"That's great news," Steve says, and means it. 

It's been many years now since the mention of her children made him think ruefully of the too-short, too-sweet time after the war, when he'd thought they would one day be raising a family together. That was before work got in the way, before she tired of being seen only in relation to Captain America the hero, before they started to argue about the difference between what was right and what was realistic... They'd ended it before things could turn truly sour, and for so long now they've been just old friends, never to cross that line again; the time for regrets is long gone.

But all their chatter is just preamble, and they know it.

"So," Steve says at last, when their plates have been taken away and they're both nursing their glasses of wine. "Minsk."

"Not here," she says, her voice sharpening. She drains the last of her wine, tossing it back without a blink. "Let's walk."

After the mission, Peggy had debriefed him personally. This wasn't odd in itself, given Steve's special status. But what was unusual was her manner, completely clipped and impersonal, her eyes flickering from time to time towards the tape deck in the corner of the room that recorded every word. Warily, Steve had followed her cues, giving as bland an account of the mission as professionally permissible. After the briefing he'd tried to pull her aside, but she'd only said _later_. The next day she'd called, studiedly casual, and asked him to dinner. 

After Peggy picks up the check, they head outside. It's starting to turn cold; Peggy turns her collar up and puts her arm through Steve's. They stroll through the park across the road from the restaurant, saying little until the other walkers and joggers and passers-by are out of earshot.

"Minsk," Steve says at last. "That was him. That was the Winter Soldier." 

That had been one of the topics they'd carefully skated around in the debriefing. _He had a metal arm_ , he'd said, and Peggy's eyes had flared briefly in surprise and alarm; and then she'd moved on, gently steering the discussion in another direction.

"And you're sure of that?" Peggy says, though she doesn't seem to be in much doubt herself.

"He was just like the stories - that strong, that fast." Steve shakes his head. "All this time, I thought he was a rumour. A ghost story for baby spooks. Never thought I'd see him myself. Or get punched in the face by him, either." He rubs at his jaw ruefully. Days later and he still feels the impact of that steel fist. 

She sighs. "Well. I see now why our scientist kept insisting we guaranteed safe passage. He was afraid of something like this." 

"He was right to be." They come to a halt by a pond, still and dark. "Okay, but why all this cloak and dagger stuff at the debrief, Peggy? What's going on?"

"That mission was sabotaged, Steve, that seems obvious," she says. She looks out across the water, her profile stern. "Unfortunately, this wasn't an isolated incident, and the damage seems to be coming from within the organisation."

"So we have a leak," Steve says grimly.

"No." Peggy shakes her head, her eyes still distant. "No, Steve, I fear it's far worse than that. I believe we've been compromised at the highest level; and I have no idea how far or how deep that corruption goes."

And that silences him completely. 

"Will you help me, Steve?" she says, turning to him at last.

It's a genuine question, not an order. He has the feeling that if he walked away, she'd let him go. Isn't that what he's been trying to do for the past two years? To walk away? 

Or perhaps he's only been trying to fool himself about that. When they call, he still comes running; and if they didn't call, perhaps he'd run anyway. He's never been good at letting things go.

After only a moment, Steve says, "Tell me what I can do." 

Peggy's shoulders relax, just a fraction. Then she nods sharply and gives him a considering look, a craftsman fitting the right tool to the right task. "The agent," she says at last. "Nicholas Fury. Start with him."

*

The doctors keep Nick in hospital for two days to make sure there are no ill-effects from either the surgery or his few days of captivity. He hears nothing from SHIELD except the order to report in as soon as he's discharged; they send word that they've arranged transport from the hospital door.

So he goes outside and it's Pierce, because of course it is, leaning back against a sleek silver coupe that can't possibly be standard SHIELD issue. "Heard you needed a ride," he says, opening the passenger door as though he's picking Nick up for a date. Nick shakes his head and gets in. 

Pierce brings the car to a stop at the Triskelion and turns to Nick. "Doc told me you wouldn't be able to drive for a few days yet, at least while that bandage is still on," he says, casually. "So you're going to need someone to get you home."

Nick climbs out of the car. "I'll catch a cab," he says, and slams the door, though he doubts it'll be any real deterrent. 

Pierce's act is good, and maybe it isn't even entirely an act, but he must be watching Nick on orders - Internal Affairs is his guess. Pierce won't be leaving him alone any time soon, no matter how unpleasant he tries to be. 

So he's already in a bad frame of mind when he walks into the debrief.

Four hours later, he walks out of there about ready to explode. 

When Pierce catches up to him in the transport bay, Nick is in no mood for games. "How'd it go?" Pierce says lightly.

"Back off, Pierce," he snaps.

Pierce either doesn't hear the warning in his voice or doesn't take it seriously. "You look like someone kicked your dog," he says. "Come on. Was it really that bad?"

That's it. The past few days, the built-up grief from the mission, all come to a head. He takes one swift look around the transport bay to ensure they're alone and then he grabs Pierce by the lapels of his coat. He pushes him down the narrow aisle between two cars, backing him up against a concrete pillar. 

"That bad?" he says, and drops his voice, low and snarling. "That bad? I just spent four goddamn hours being stonewalled and shut down about the fact that two of my teammates - two of my friends - died for a mission that's starting to look like it was a set-up in the first place. So yeah. I'd say it was that bad. Does that answer your question, Agent Pierce?"

Pierce doesn't answer straight away. He stares back at Nick, eyes gone wide and dark, his tongue flickering over his mouth. Nick's acutely aware of how close they're standing together, their bodies aligned, hip to hip. 

"Crystal clear," Pierce says hoarsely, and it's obvious now that he's getting hard, pressing against Nick's thigh. So it wasn't just an act.

It's not as though Nick hasn't thought about this, after every glance and every double-edged remark. Ever since they stepped off the plane he's been wanting to mess up Pierce's perfect hair and perfect suit, wanting to shake him until that control showed some cracks. And here it is, here's his opportunity.

So he grinds up closer and tightens his grip on Pierce's clothes, never breaking eye contact, watching him get all flushed and rumpled, his head falling back to expose his throat. There's a part of him that considers just stepping away, just leaving Pierce hanging like this as a petty kind of payback - but that would mean missing the bigger picture, the one where they both get something they want.

"Where's your car?" he says, soft into Pierce's ear. He steps back, lets go. "It's a fifteen minute drive to my place."

It's almost funny to see Pierce fumbling for his car keys, nearly dropping them. Almost, because the truth is that Nick's just as impatient, that heat in his blood starting to boil over. 

They make it to Nick's place in ten.

*

Nick wakes in the night when Pierce slips out of bed to get dressed in the dark. He pretends to be sleeping while Pierce makes his way out of the apartment; he keeps still until he hears Pierce's car starting down in the street below and then moving off.

Days pass. 

Nick gets the bandages removed, passes his physical, does _not_ get assigned to any further missions. While the investigation is ongoing, SHIELD remains ominously silent. Nothing from Pierce.

With nothing else to do, he spends most days down at the local boxing gym, passing the hours with the old timers, wannabes, and other guys like him - guys trying to take the edge off, trying to sweat out the rage. 

He's doing just that when Rogers walks in.

"You got some kind of grudge against that punching bag?" Rogers says, when Nick pauses for a breather. He smiles, unfazed by Nick's glare. 

Nick tugs his gloves off and drops them by his gym bag. "What can I do for you, Captain?" he says, towelling down his arms and face. "Or did you want to go a round?" He tilts his head towards the ring.

Rogers shoves his hands in his pockets. "Thought we could talk. Maybe go somewhere quiet."

They head to a mostly-empty bar down the street. "I assume SHIELD's paying for this," Nick says, and orders the most expensive beer available. 

"Well..." Rogers says. 

"No?" Nick raises an eyebrow. "But this ain't exactly a social call either, is it?"

"Yeah, well. I had some questions," Rogers says. He fiddles with the label on his beer. "When I found you in Minsk - you said it was a trap. How did you know?"

"You know," Nick says after a moment, "you're the first person to actually ask me that question. Funny, isn't it? Two agents dead, and nobody wants to talk about it. Tell me why that is, Captain Rogers?"

"I don't know." Rogers meets his gaze steadily. "But there was something wrong with that mission. And I want to know why."

"You and me both." Nick takes a long swig, sets the bottle down. "So why did I think it was a trap. Seems obvious, doesn't it? Why else would they leave me alive?" he points out. "The mission had already failed. They were keeping me as bait - they wanted to dangle me in the water and see what bit." Sarcastically he raises his drink in Rogers' direction. "And they almost got you too. The biggest fish of all."

Rogers looks thoughtful. "You think they were expecting me?"

"Maybe not you specifically." Nick tilts his head consideringly. "But they sure were expecting someone. They blocked your transmitter. And they sent out their bad boy with the metal arm, didn't they?"

"That they did." Rogers takes a sip from his beer, then looks down slightly surprised, as though he'd forgotten he held it. 

"Seems to me that someone on our end fucked up, right from the start, before my mission even began," Nick says, finally saying out loud what's been weighing on his mind ever since the mission went wrong. "They fucked up bad enough that now they're trying to cover their tracks, trying to bury this mission before someone finds out what really happened. Or maybe," he says, and he takes a big long swig of his beer before saying this next part, "maybe we got ourselves a leak. Or worse."

"Damn. So you think so too." Rogers shakes his head and takes another absent sip from his bottle. After a moment he confesses, "I hate this sort of thing, did I tell you that?"

"That so?" Nick leans back. "Then you've come to the right person, Cap."

Rogers' eyebrows go up. "Your file has you down as a marksman, Fury. Didn't know you worked in covert ops too."

"Cap, if you believe everything you read in the files," Nick says, "then that's your first mistake."

*

He's just sitting down to breakfast in his rented apartment when the phone rings. He picks up. "This is Rogers."

"Steve," Peggy says, fast and strained. In the background he can hear traffic noises. "I'm safe. I'm out and I'm safe. If you can, come find me."

"Peggy, wait, hang on -" 

But he's already talking to the dial tone. He stares at the phone - then there's a sharp rapping at the door and he almost jumps out of his skin.

"Captain Rogers? Captain Rogers, open up please. This is Sterling, from SHIELD Internal Affairs."

Warily, Steve takes a look through the peephole. There's a team of four out in the hallway, all in suits and carrying briefcases; he recognises at least one of them from SHIELD, though he's not sure if that's a good or bad thing.

Taking a deep breath, he opens the door. "Morning," he says, aiming for casual. "What can I do for you?

Sterling holds up warrant papers. "We're authorised to search your room, sir. Please step aside." 

Steve lets them in, though every impulse in him screams to slam the door and lock it. As they file in, he says, "What exactly is going on? Am I being accused of something?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to come back with us to the Triskelion, sir," says Sterling blandly as the others start to move through the apartment. "We'll be able to answer your questions there."

One of the agents unplugs the phone from the wall and starts pulling it apart, wires spilling on to the carpet. From inside the study, there's the sound of drawers being pulled from their slots and papers being rifled.

"Not good enough," Steve says. He folds his arms, decides to throw out a lure. "I'm not leaving here until I speak with Director Carter."

"I'm sorry, sir," Sterling says, unapologetically. "But Director Carter has been suspended pending investigation. Orders of the World Security Council."

If Sterling's watching Steve for a reaction, then Steve sure gives it to him. He doesn't bother hiding his shock.

"The Council is eager to speak to you, sir," Sterling says. "We have a car waiting downstairs." He indicates the door. 

"Just. Give me a moment." Steve takes a minute or two to put the cereal bowl in the sink and the milk back in the fridge, picks up his shield and his wallet, thinking hard all the while. 

When he's ready he walks out and down the corridor. As he turns the corner, he sees a team of STRIKE agents lining the hallway, their weapons at the ready. They were there all the time, he realises with a chill, just in case he decided to bolt.

He walks down the stairs and towards the waiting car with STRIKE agents flanking him the whole time - like an honour guard, or a prison convoy. 

Steve gets into the car, and then he gets ready.

*

The next day Nick's back at the gym, still beating up on that punching bag. Someone approaches and seeing blond hair from the side of his eye, he says, "Back again?"

But he turns and it's not Rogers, but Pierce. He's dressed as casually as Nick's ever seen him, though he's still dapper in his expensive slacks and sweater. 

"So you're a boxer," Pierce says, and he couldn't be any more obvious about eyeing up Nick's scarred torso.

"Nah," Nick says. "I just like punching things for fun." He lets himself be just as obvious, looking back. 

"How's the eye?" Pierce says. He reaches out, like he did at the hospital, fingers light on Nick's jaw; and just like then, it sets Nick's blood pumping. "Vision okay?"

Nick blinks slowly. "Better than new," he drawls. "Just like the doctor said. That what you came all the way here to ask?"

"No. I was going to ask if you were busy tonight," Pierce says, with that easy smile, that easy charm, hands back in his pockets. "Want to get out of here?"

They go back to Nick's place again. 

There's nothing romantic about it, nothing tender in the way Nick slams Pierce up against the door and then pushes him down on the bed. Pierce gives as back as good as he gets - Nick still has bruises from the first time; he'll have more from this one, and Pierce will have the marks to match. 

It's not romantic but it's deeply satisfying, a scratch to all Nick's itches. It's not tender, but there's a softness to Pierce's lazy kisses afterwards that wasn't there before.

This time Nick's the one who stays awake while Pierce dozes off. It occurs to him what a luxury this is for both of them, in their line of work, with their preferences - trusting someone enough to let your guard down without fear of repercussions. The freedom to stretch out and fall asleep, instead of hooking up in a back room or furtively leaving as soon as the business is over with. 

Pierce still kinda pisses him off, with his self-satisfied air, his entitled attitude. But he likes this, Nick decides, this easy, comradely affection; and what came before it, too. He could get used to this.

When Nick gets up to take a shower, Pierce mutters and turns over onto his back, eyelids flickering. But afterwards, when he looks in through the bedroom door again, Pierce is still sleeping.

"Who do you have in there?" says a voice from behind him in the darkened lounge. 

Fury whips around, fumbling at the sideboard for the handgun he shed hours earlier, along with his clothes. "Goddamnit," he says, snarling, furious at both himself and at Rogers. He doesn't lower the gun. "Son of a bitch, what are you-"

"Keep it down and close that door." Rogers takes a couple of steps forward, looming in the darkness. Behind him the curtains billow at the window where he must've climbed in. "Who do you have in there?" he repeats, and there's nothing joking in his manner or the way his eyes warily scan the room.

"What's it to you?" he sneers, but he still closes the bedroom door and keeps his voice low, because something has obviously gone very fucking wrong. He keeps the gun up, even though they both know that if Rogers truly wanted to take Fury, the gun wouldn't be enough to tip the balance. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Guess you haven't heard, then," Rogers says. He smiles tightly. "I'm on the run from SHIELD, and Director Carter's been suspended. They're calling it treason." 

Nick cocks his head, disbelieving. "You're shitting me." 

"Seems someone thought I was asking a few too many questions about Minsk. They came to my place today to take me in and I..." He shrugs, the edge of his shield glinting from behind his shoulders. "Well, I chose not to be taken in."

"How'd you 'choose' that?" Nick says.

Rogers shrugs again. "Had to take out a few cars. Knock some heads together. Don't think they're going to be too happy with me."

"Is that so?" 

"Yeah." Rogers nods towards the handgun. "So are you gonna put that thing away anytime soon?"

Nick shakes his head, more in disbelief than denial. "It's not that I don't trust you, Rogers," he says, "but I sure as hell don't know why you're trusting me. We've met just twice, and then you show up on my door with this? Are you crazy? I'm still SHIELD, Cap. I should be taking you in."

"You won't take me in because you want to know the truth as badly as I do," Rogers says, so sure and so certain that it's not hard to see why he once led armies. "Do that and we'll never know the truth about DeRozan and Lopez. The fact that this is happening means you were right - we're onto something, something big. Besides," he adds, with an unexpected flash of humour, "I'm going to need your help. You said you were good at this sort of thing, remember?"

Slowly Nick lowers the gun. "I still think you're out of your mind," he says, grudgingly. "But yeah. Okay. I'm in."

"Good," Rogers said. "Because we've got a lot to do, and not much time." 

"Fine." Nick looks down at himself, still wrapped in nothing but a towel. "But first let me put on my goddamn pants."

*

They go up to the roof to talk, where there's less chance of being overheard. 

Rogers doesn't ask him the question again but the whole time Nick's acutely conscious of the fact that an Internal Affairs agent is lying in his bed, just a few floors below. When Nick comes back down the fire stairs to his apartment, alone this time, he's faintly surprised to find Pierce still there, limbs sprawled across the striped sheets. But if Pierce is still here then perhaps...

Pierce stirs at the movement of the bed, mumbling, "Is it morning yet?" 

"Nah," Nick says, getting into bed. "You've got a few hours. And you already said tomorrow's your day off." 

"Yeah." Unexpectedly Pierce throws an arm across his waist as he settles back in, his body warm all along Nick's side. Nick pulls the cover over them both before he falls asleep.

Despite being up half the night, he makes sure he's the first to wake up the next morning. While Pierce is in the shower, he cooks up some scrambled eggs and toast, puts on some coffee, and rifles Pierce's pockets. By the time Pierce emerges from the bathroom, in a pair of Nick's old sweatpants and still towelling off his hair, Pierce's SHIELD pass is safely in Nick's possession and the eggs are on the table. 

"All this for me?" Pierce says, taking a seat with a faint smirk. "How'd you know I liked 'em scrambled?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Nick says, passing him a mug of coffee.

When it's time to go, Pierce pulls Nick in for a kiss. "I'll see you around," Pierce says, backing away down the hallway. It sounds like a possibility rather than a promise - but it's more true than Pierce knows.

"Sure," Nick says, leaning casually against the doorframe with arms folded. As he watches Pierce leave, his mind is already racing ahead to the Triskelion, and where Pierce's ID might get him, and how long he has before Pierce realises. 

Not long, he thinks, not long at all.

He shaves closely and dresses carefully to make himself appear as unexceptional as possible: just another SHIELD agent, on just another working day. He places the equipment Rogers handed over the night before into a briefcase, concealed beneath a false base and a stack of papers. He makes sure to straighten his tie.

Nick tenses up as he approaches the security gates at the Triskelion, but as Rogers predicted, they wave him through on his usual pass without a second glance. It seems he's still too low on the totem pole to be flagged.

Once he's safely inside, he moves quickly. Under his own name and pass, he still has standard clearance. That's enough to get him into most areas, but what he needs isn't so easily accessible. The original plan had been to get inside, then steal or copy another pass with a higher authority - but this way is quicker and easier. He stomps on the pang of guilt he feels as he swipes Pierce's card through the reader; the door unseals and then he's through to the Internal Affairs division.

Nick walks quickly, but not _too_ quickly, with a manila folder tucked under his arm and his briefcase in his hand. From an empty desk he snags a mug of cold coffee, carries it around as though he's walking from one meeting to another. He makes a full circuit of the office, scanning for ceiling-mounted cameras and cables as he goes, still holding that one cup of coffee. 

He puts it down near the Xerox machine, moments before he quietly trips the fire alarm.

As the sirens wail and the emergency lights flicker on, the IA agents milling around the office groan and roll their eyes. They take their sweet time getting their shit together and exiting via the fire stairs. He curses them under his breath and checks his watch - he doesn't have much time. Security will be on their way soon and chances are this is the only chance he'll have. 

When the office is finally clear, it takes him three minutes to find Sterling's office, eight minutes to pick the locks on the cabinets and find the file he needs, and by then security is already coming in through the doors.

Nick ends up crawling under Sterling's desk to set up the fancy high-tech bugging devices Rogers gave him the day before: one for the phone, one fixed to the underside of that same desk. He works by the light of the flashlight gripped between his teeth, while just a few feet away the guards are sweeping the floor. They're looking for signs of fire and for stragglers - not intruders, not agents crammed into too-small spaces with their legs sticking out - so they cast only a quick eye over Sterling's office and then move on. When they switch off the alarms and leave the floor again, he lets out a breath.

Still keeping to the cameras' blindspots, Nick's out and down the stairs before the IA agents can return to their desks. He exits the stairwell in the lobby, where he makes sure to walk, not run, back to the transport bay and his car. 

No one stops him or asks to see what's in his briefcase; he leaves the Triskelion utterly free of any hindrance. He still can't help the crawling feeling on the back of his neck, can't shake the sense he's being watched. The feeling follows him all the way back home.

As he walks in the door, the phone starts to ring. He picks up warily, but it's just Pierce. It's been three hours tops since breakfast.

"I think I left my SHIELD pass at your place," Pierce says, sounding sheepish. "Mind if I swing by tonight and pick it up?"

The tension he's been carrying around all day starts to dissipate. "You do that," he says. "Bring something to drink."

After he hangs up, he makes himself a cup of coffee and turns to the file stolen from Sterling's office. 

Half an hour later, the coffee's gone cold. He hasn't touched a drop.

*

Steve is at the rendezvous point in the park ten minutes early; Fury arrives bang on time. They walk and talk, clipped and brisk. 

"You got it?" Steve says.

"I got it," Fury replies. "How's the equipment I put in? Signal working okay?" 

"Loud and clear, and we've got a communications expert on it," Steve says. "Nothing notable yet, though."

They come to a stop by a war monument, standing shoulder to shoulder, looking down as though they're reading the plaque and the listed names of the dead. 

"So," Steve says, a little impatient. "The file?"

Slowly Fury holds it out - but when Steve tries to take it, he doesn't let go. "Tell me, did you ever ask Director Carter what the mission was actually about?" he says. "She ever tell you why SHIELD was so eager to get Doctor Kavalchuk back to the States?"

Steve blinks. It's not the question he was expecting. "She said he was part of a top secret Soviet project," he says warily. 

"Sure was," Fury says, looking grim. "A top secret _super-soldier_ project. She mention that? No? Didn't think so." He lets go of the file. "It's all in there. You're not gonna like what you read, Cap. I'm sorry."

He's momentarily confused, because why Fury would be apologising - what on earth does he have to apologise _for_? - and then he flips open the folder and sees the photo, the name, the dates. His eyes skim down the page, and the next, snagging on random words that seem to leap out from the page.

_Soviet assassin and spy... Project Winter Soldier... Barnes, James…_

"I'm real sorry, Cap," Fury says again, his voice coming faint and distant through the roaring in Steve's ears. "I know you two were friends from before the war. If I'd known, if I'd had any idea..." 

He shakes his head, dazed, and suddenly he's sitting on the ground, his head between his knees. 

"Cap," Fury says, softly at first and then sharply. "Cap, get up. On your feet, soldier. We can't do this here."

He lets Fury drag him to his feet and pull him away. They head back to Steve's car while Fury covers for them both, keeping his eyes open for tails and watchers. "I'll drive," Fury says, holding his hand out for the keys.

"Why do you always get to drive?" he says, joking feebly. He must look even more worse than he feels, because Fury actually cracks a relieved smile at that one.

They head back to Steve and Peggy's makeshift base by a convoluted and circuitous route, still wary of picking up tails. Steve is thankful Fury's competent because it leaves him free to read through the file. It contains both SHIELD internal reports and translations of leaked Soviet material, blunt and functional as all such documents are:

_Credited with over two dozen assassinations, linked to at least fifteen further incidents… serum appears to have had similar anti-aging effects as experienced by… has displayed a complete and unwavering dedication to the Soviet cause…_

At the back of the file there's a sheaf of photos. 

The first batch is comprised of blurry surveillance shots, dated over the course of twenty-five years, at the sites of various assassinations, bombings, 'accidents'. In these it's possible for Steve to tell himself that this could be a case of mistaken identity, that there's merely someone out there who looks like Bucky, stands like Bucky… 

Then there's another batch of photos, of a much higher quality, that turns Steve's stomach. Captioned in Cyrillic, clearly from a clinical setting like a lab or a surgical theatre, these show the progress of bullet wounds, stab wounds, broken bones, bruising, and their healing over intervals of minutes, hours, days. In these photos, his face is unmistakable; and impassive, despite the terrible wounds. 

Steve slams the file shut and stares out the window. 

He remembers what it felt like to have the Winter Soldier - to have _Bucky_ \- punch him in the jaw, the ribs, how the blows with the full weight of the metal arm behind them had hurt as much as anything he'd felt since the serum first did its work. He feels an echo of that now: gut-punched, winded, wounded. 

Almost thirty years ago, he'd buried Bucky - in memory, at least. He'd buried Bucky, mourned him, and moved on.

To find out now that Bucky's been alive the entire time, and not just alive but actively working to destroy all that Steve has dedicated his life to building; that he'd look Steve straight in the eye in Minsk and not even blink before trying to end his life -

He doesn't believe it. He can't believe it.

"Which part, Cap?" Fury says, and he realises he's said this last thought out loud. "That the Winter Soldier is Bucky Barnes? Or that Director Carter would knowingly keep this from you?"

He bites his lip, trying to sort the thoughts from the feelings. "I trust Peggy Carter with my life," he says eventually, taking the easiest question first. "I can't believe she knew about this. She's never lied to me."

"Not that you know of, anyway," Fury says skeptically.

"But think about it," Steve says, warming to the argument. "Where did you find this? Just lying around in a filing cabinet in Internal Affairs? Do you think if this file was real, that Peggy wouldn't know about it? No. Maybe there's some truth in here," and he jabs at the file in his lap, "but we need more evidence. _You_ were the one who told me not to believe everything in the files."

"Didn't I also tell you that you trust people too easily?" Fury points out, but he shakes his head, conceding the point. "But what about the rest of it?" Fury says, more quietly. "What about Barnes?"

Geography saves him from needing to reply. "Here," he says, leaning forward. "Take the left, here."

After escaping from the STRIKE team, he'd gone looking for Peggy. _Come find me_ , she'd said, trusting that he'd need no clues. In the past, they'd both considered the unlikely possibility of this type of scenario - the War had taught them both to be cautious, and the Cold War even more so - and he had an idea of where she might be. 

He struck out at the first two locations he tried but found her at the third: a disused bunker they'd officially decommissioned in the 1950s. "What took you so long?" she'd said, eyebrows raised.

More surprising had been the person standing beside her: Jim Morita, grinning and grey-haired, larger than life. "Heard you troublemakers were at it again," he'd said, clasping Steve's hand, sounding far more irritated than he looked. "Thought I was done with this bullshit when I retired."

It was Jim who'd supplied the bugs for Sterling's office. "Latest prototypes, straight from Stark," he said. He'd gone to work for Stark Industries after leaving active duty, and though ostensibly retired he was clearly still in the know. "You tell this Fury kid to treat these babies right, you hear me?"

When they arrive at the bunker, he leaves Jim and Fury to get acquainted - he suspects they'll get along just fine - and draws Peggy into the windowless room that's serving as her makeshift office, closing the door behind them. 

"Explain this," he says, slapping the file down on to the table between them. Maybe he should've been strategic about it, tried to trick her into revealing something she intended to keep hidden. It's what Fury would've advised him to do, what any spy worth their salt would try. 

But this is Peggy and there have never been any secrets between them, and he so desperately wants for that to be still true.

She gives him a level, unimpressed stare, but opens the file anyway. 

After the first few pages she fumbles behind her for a chair and sit down heavily. He alternates pacing the room and watching her read, the only sounds in the room the rustle of papers, his too-quick steps.

"Steve," Peggy says at last, her voice low and trembling as she looks up. "I never - if this is actually true, and if I'd known, then you must know I'd have told you -"

She pushes her chair back and walks across the room, puts her hand on his arm, just softly. He turns into her arms and they hold one another tightly for long minutes.

When he draws back he's embarrassed to see the marks left by his tears left on the fabric of her jacket. He brushes at the marks ineffectually, and they both laugh, awkwardly, both of them still wiping at their eyes.

"But if it's true," he says, swallowing, "if it's true and it's really him…" 

He doesn't finish the sentence but she's always been able to read him, must see the glimmer of hope that's woken up inside him despite everything in his head that tells him it's a fool's hope.

"Oh, Steve," Peggy says, sounding as though she's going to start crying all over again, taking his hands in her's. "I know how much you loved him. But if it's true, then it's up to us to stop him. Not to save him."

"I know," he says. He looks down at their intertwined hands. "I know, but -"

They both startle when there's a banging at the door. 

"Peggy, Steve, get out here now," Jim says urgently. "It's Barn- the Winter Soldier. He's here. And he has a hostage."

*

The Soldier holds Pierce in front of him like armour, metal hand wrapped around his throat and the other pointing a gun to his head. Unmasked, he stares up at the camera stonily - and without the disguise, it's impossible to deny that the file is true. The Winter Soldier is Bucky Barnes.

Through the grainy video feed, Pierce looks surprisingly calm, even with his hands bound behind his back and his neck this close to being snapped. He mouths some words, too soft for the microphones to pick up, but in response the Soldier's hand tightens around his neck, wrenching him roughly - Nick finds himself standing with hands curled into fists.

"Agent Pierce?" Rogers says, surprised. "Why Pierce?"

"We - he - he was at my place last night," Nick admits after a long pause, stumbling uncharacteristically. "I took his SHIELD pass, used it to get into Sterling's office. They might have traced it back."

Rogers shoots him a quick, startled glance at the mention of the night before, no doubt recalling the unnamed guest in his bedroom. Fury ignores it. They can talk about that, or _not_ talk about it, later.

"He's alone," Morita says, staring at the screen. He looks about as upset with the revelation of the Soldier's identity as Carter did when she and Rogers had emerged from her office. "I've scanned the area and there's no one else within range. I just don't know how he tracked you here at all."

"Well, he did, and he's made the first move," Director Carter says. They all turn to her expectantly. "Now it's our turn. I'd say wait him out but with Pierce in play, that's not an option, and it's likely he has back-up on the way. Rogers, you take point. Fury and I will cover you. Morita, hold the bunker, and keep monitoring the comms and the perimeter."

"Got it," Morita says, fingers already flying over the controls. 

Nick follows Carter and Rogers to the extensive weapons cache. Carter has obviously long been prepared for any eventuality; he has to admire her foresight. Nick picks out his weapons and checks them over while the other two talk to one another in low, urgent voices. 

"So we're going to kill him," Rogers says grimly. "Just like that."

"Do you think he looks like a man who'll let himself be brought in alive?" Carter says. "I'm sorry, Steve. But you may not have a choice."

Rogers says nothing further, but his mouth is hard as he shoulders his shield and heads for the door.

Carter stops Nick before he can follow. "I need you to be ready, Agent," she says. "If you get a clear headshot - take it." 

"Yes, ma'am," he says, and she nods once firmly before sweeping out the door.

He takes position behind a cluster of boulders on the hill on top of the bunker, a natural sniper's perch, while Rogers approaches from the front with Carter flanking him. Carter has her gun aimed and ready, but Rogers walks out with his hands empty, shield slung on his back and gun holstered at his hip in a show of what Nick can't decide is misplaced trust or sheer idiocy.

"Sergeant Barnes," Rogers says, his voice hoarse over the crackle of the comms. "Bucky. Let Pierce go and we can talk about this, we can negotiate-"

"Call off your sniper," the Soldier says, his voice raspy as though from disuse. "Call off your sniper and put down your arms. _All_ of you."

"And if we do that," Rogers says, deliberately moving forward to obstruct Nick's clear sightline, ignoring both Carter's hissed _dammit, Steve_ and Nick cursing a blue streak over the comms, "if we do that, can we talk?"

"There's nothing to talk about, Rogers," Barnes says, and his hand must clench a little tighter around Pierce's windpipe to make him wheeze like that. "There's nothing you can do for me except..."

"Except?" Rogers says.

Maybe Nick only spots it because he's watching through the magnifying scope of his rifle and he's just at the right angle to see Pierce's hand move - or maybe it's because he's the only one watching Pierce more closely than Barnes - but he does watch, and he does see, and in that moment everything's sickeningly reversed.

"Cap, Carter, get out," he says rapidly, fast as he can draw breath, "get the fuck out right now, he's not a hostage, repeat, _Pierce isn't a hostage, he has a gun_ -"

"Except die," Barnes says bleakly, and he lets go of Pierce in the same moment Pierce brings the gun out from behind his back and they both start shooting.

Carter ducks for cover while Cap brings his shield up, finally unholstering that damn gun of his, and engages Barnes head-on. Stuck up in his perch, still without clear lines of sight, Nick slings his rifle onto his back and runs. He's aware of Rogers and Barnes exchanging fire and blows, almost too fast for the eye to follow, but his focus is trained on Pierce, who's closing in on Carter fast.

Nick barrels into Pierce and tackles him to the ground, the gun flying from his hand, and he shouts at Carter, "Go help Rogers."

He doesn't stop to watch if she does, too busy wrestling with Pierce. He should shoot him and he knows it, he should just shoot him, but it's like Rogers and Barnes - he'll take Pierce alive if he can possibly help it, because goddamn, he just wants to know _why_. 

Nick punches Pierce in the face and straddles his hips, trying to pin his wrists to the ground - and it can't help but feel like a parody of the night before when he was on top of Pierce and fucking him into the mattress. Then, Pierce had pulled him down and kissed him, panting into Nick's mouth and asking him to fuck him harder. Now, Pierce surges upwards, all lean muscle beneath his expensive clothes, and tries to knock Nick's teeth out with his head.

He rears backwards and the momentum shifts, Nick falling and Pierce pushing, Nick beneath him and Pierce on top. 

"Sorry it turned out like this," Pierce says through gritted teeth, smiling with his bloodied mouth, his hands tight around Nick's throat. "We had such fun times together."

Nick doesn't waste his effort trying to reply; just brings his knee up and into Pierce's balls. Pierce doubles up, his grip loosening enough for Nick to break free and push him aside. 

"Movement on the western perimeter," Morita says abruptly into their earpieces. "Four vehicles. Looks like the STRIKE team. I'll take out as many as I can remotely but we should assume we're going to be outnumbered pretty badly in about ten minutes."

Pierce scrambles to his feet and goes to stand back to back with Barnes, who's down to knives now. He and Rogers are both bloodied and battered, but it seems neither has been able to get the edge over the other. 

"Fall back," Carter orders. "Leave them. We've got to move."

"Move how?" Nick says, but he's already retreating, following Carter and Cap into the bunker. They seal the door behind them; from outside they can hear the ricochet of bullets but for the moment they're safe, even from Barnes. "So now we're trapped in here. All they have to do is starve us out. Or drop a bomb on us."

Carter smiles slightly. "Are we? Always remember to have an exit route, Agent Fury." Then she grows serious again. "Now. You two, strip."

She means it. Determined to find out how Pierce and Barnes tracked them to the bunker, Nick and Rogers shed every item of clothing and equipment - even their dogtags - and Morita scans it all for tracking devices. 

"Nothing," he says, shrugging, as Nick rubs his arms briskly and wishes his towel were warmer. He scowls at Rogers, who looks as comfortable now as he does in his uniform.

Carter frowns, but there's no time. "Fine," she says, already striding away. "Get dressed and get moving."

The four of them head down to the very bottom level of the bunker. They stop at a seemingly random storeroom where a piece of shelving swings open at Carter's touch, creaking and dusty, to reveal a sealed combination vault of the kind used in banks. Carter unlocks the door with deft hands to reveal not another room, but a dark passageway cut straight through rock.

They walk through and vault door slams shut behind them. For one dizzying moment they're in pure darkness. Then one by one they turn on their flashlights and they start to move, Carter leading the way and Rogers bringing up the rear. 

Somewhere, a mile above their heads, they can hear and feel the rumble of explosions. The bunker has been taken. None of them say anything. They can't turn back now.

*

Time passes differently in the dark. 

After what feels like days but can only be hours, the rock walls and muddy floors give way to concrete. Eventually they emerge near a disused dam, and by then the sky has fallen to full night. 

"Those tunnels don't appear in any city plan or map," Carter explains as they jump down from the tunnel and into the grass below. "So we've bought ourselves some time at least."

"Peggy," Rogers says slowly, looking over her shoulder intently. "I hate to interrupt, but I think they're already here."

They all look upwards and it's true - there's a squad of helicopters circling the dam, their searchlights sweeping over the terrain below. The choppers look to be honing in on their location, the radius of their search slowly narrowing.

For the first time, Nick sees Director Carter openly furious and baffled. "How the hell did they find us this time? How are they tracking us? We checked every _stitch_ on both of you."

"Work it out later. Those choppers are armed with missiles," Rogers says. "We'll split up. Fury and I will draw them off, you and Jim head back into the tunnels."

As he and Rogers start to run, Nick racks his brains, trying to think how they keep being found. He's the most likely candidate to be carrying a device, that's pretty obvious, but Carter's right - they checked everything. What could it possibly be? Could Pierce have planted something on him without him knowing?

As the choppers circle in, closer and closer, all in a flash Nick recalls being at the hospital, the coolly considering gaze of the SHIELD surgeon and the look he'd exchanged with Pierce - 

_It's going to need immediate surgery, Agent Fury -_

_The doctor says it should be better than new -_

_How's the -_

"Eye," he says, with a calm and terrible certainty. He slows to a stop, letting as much distance open up between him and Rogers as possible. "It's in my motherfucking eye." 

From a chopper far above them, a missile launches into the night sky, trailing sparks like a shooting star.

"What are you doing? Keep running!" Rogers yells, turning back like a goddamn fool. 

There's not much time. Nick knows what he has to do. He draws his knife.

Rogers isn't close enough to do anything but watch. The expression on his face changes to incredulous horror. "No - Fury, what the hell are you -?"

It only takes one slice.

Rogers tackles him to the ground, covering them both with the shield. The missile flashes past mere feet overhead and explodes against a stand of trees which catch fire and burn, red and gold against the night, a wave of intense heat passing over them. 

Up above, the helicopters start to wheel and turn away; the tracking device must have shorted out close enough to the moment the missile hit. Soon the night is quiet again. 

"You are out of your mind," Rogers says, over and over again. He tears off one of Nick's sleeves and leans over him, pressing the wadded-up cloth to Nick's ruined eye to staunch the bleeding. "I can't believe you did that."

Nick lies back in the grass, still shaking with adrenaline and agony. He forces his fingers to unclench from around the knife, lets the blade fall to the ground by his side. He reaches out, fumbling, and finds Rogers' free hand.

"Had to be done," he grits out, and squeezes Rogers' hand hard enough to hurt - anything to distract from the pain.

Rogers squeezes back just as hard. "Stay with me, soldier," he says, as Nick starts to black out, "just stay with me."

The last thing he sees before he passes out is Rogers' anxious face, lit by fire.

*

Steve looks up and catches Fury watching him, face creased with lines from his pillow, still looking sleep-dazed.

"You're kinda making a habit out of waking up like this," Steve says, trying a smile.

Fury's good eye blinks slowly. "Thought you were him for a moment," he says raspily. He rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling of the van. "Where are we going?" 

"We're on our way to New Jersey." Steve leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Managed to get one of Jim's tracking devices on to Bu- on to Barnes' arm while we were fighting. They aren't the only ones who know how to do that."

Fury raises a hand, touches tentatively at the bandages around his head, completely covering his left eye. "I really did it this time, didn't I?" he says quietly.

Steve nods. He doesn't think he'll ever forget that - the flash of the blade, the lack of hesitation. Doesn't think he'll see anything so brave or awful again for a long, long time.

"You know? I think I'm gonna look real good with an eyepatch," Fury drawls after a moment. 

Steve barks out a laugh. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I think so too."

*

The trail leads them to Camp Lehigh - the place where it all began for them both, and for SHIELD. And perhaps for their enemy, too.

Fury argues against it but they force him to stay behind in the van while the rest of them head inside. "If we don't make it back," Steve says, lingering just a moment longer than the others, "then it's all up to you. You know that, don't you?"

"You're gonna make it back," Fury says gruffly. He holds out his hand and Steve takes it. It feels like a promise. 

Surprise is on their side for the first time since Minsk. Steve takes down almost all the guards patrolling the perimeter in near-silence, while Peggy disposes of the rest. Morita jams the enemy comms and disables the alarms, before taking up a position by the gates. 

"Go get him," he says to Steve, hefting his gun, still every bit the capable soldier. "I'll handle anyone who tries to come after you."

So it's Peggy and Steve alone who head into the compound. Somehow it doesn't feel like a shock to either of them when the tracking device leads to the building that housed the very first SHIELD headquarters, supposedly shut down years before.

"This is a terrible plan, Steve," Peggy mutters, checking and rechecking her weapons as Steve kneels down to prise the cover from a ventilation shaft of the roof. "We're heading into this completely blind."

"Perhaps," he admits. He sets the cover down very gently and looks up at her profile, limned by the floodlights. "But I need to know, Peggy. I need to try one more time."

"I know." She puts her hand down on his hair, just for a moment, and then clears her throat. "Lead on, Rogers."

Inside, the building is dark - except for one room down by the medical bay that's ablaze with lights. He signs the plan to Peggy and she nods her understanding; they cover the door together, and then at her signal, he kicks it down and they go in guns at the ready.

And then they freeze. 

"Ah, Captain Rogers, Director Carter," says Doctor Zola, blinking at them from a hospital bed, thin and pale and hairless, covered with tubes and wires. Beside him is Bucky; and on his other side is a bruised and battered Pierce. Both are locked and loaded. "So you finally made it."

Four guns raised and no one daring to blink. In the deathly quiet of the room, the bleep of Zola's monitors seems loud as sirens. Each of them is strung tight, ready to shoot at the first sign of weakness. 

But through the rising tension Zola tut-tuts, saying, "Now, now, not yet, my friends, hold your fire. I have been waiting for this day for so many years, and I think we should enjoy the moment a little longer."

"Bucky," Steve says tightly, "Bucky, you don't have to do this. I can bring you in, I can help you, we can-"

There's a dry, hacking sound. After a moment Steve realises it's Zola laughing, red-faced with exertion. 

"Oh, Captain," he says, tearful with mirth. "Always so idealistic. Always so hopeful. Your friend Barnes has been one of us for three decades now, as your opposite number. Did you ever notice a pattern? Each time you saved a life, the Winter Soldier took one. Each time you argued for peace, he bombed an embassy or took a politician. Every step of the way, he has been there right beside you, undoing your good deeds, creating chaos from order." He turns his head, looking to his right. "Just as _we_ have been here within SHIELD all along - isn't that right, Mr Pierce?"

"Yes, Doctor," Pierce says, smiling thinly. "Hail HYDRA."

"Hail HYDRA," echoes Bucky, his face stony and unmoving. 

Steve feels a shudder running down his spine at the old words he hasn't heard since the War, coming from the mouth of someone he'd have willing died to protect. He swallows, trying to collect himself.

"So you've been working for HYDRA all along," Peggy says, sounding enviably calm. "Then why now, Doctor Zola? Why wait until now to make your move?"

"For thirty years, HYDRA has been secretly feeding crisis and reaping war. Finally, we have created a world so chaotic that the only two superpowers on the planet are on the verge of mutually assured nuclear destruction - and when the dust settles, HYDRA will be waiting, ready to start the world from scratch." Zola smiles. "All it will take is one little push. Such as, say, the death of Captain America." 

"You're not the first to try to kill me," Steve says at last, his voice thankfully steady. "You won't be the last. Not by a long shot."

"It's true you have been quite skilled at evading us thus far, Captain Rogers. But I knew the lure of Sergeant James Barnes' file would be too difficult to resist. Perhaps it's only fitting that things will end this way - for Steve Rogers to die at the hands of his oldest, dearest friend. Don't you agree?"

"When your new world order comes," Peggy says, "it's too bad you won't be around to see it. You're dying, Doctor."

"To the contrary, my dear Director! Science cannot save my body. My mind, however, is saved on two hundred thousand feet of data banks, awaiting only the press of a button to-"

"You mean the data banks down in the secret basement?" From out of the shadows Fury stalks into the room, guns in each hand, his head still half-swathed in bandages; and everyone in the room braces themselves, grips their weapons a little harder, readying themselves for what's now surely inevitable. "The ones that I just set to delete?" 

"You -" For a moment Zola is speechless. Then he shrieks at Bucky, "Kill them, kill them now!"

Peggy fires first and Zola crumples, a puppet cut of its strings; Pierce fires back and he hears Peggy grunt as the bullet takes her in the shoulder. 

Then Bucky's coming at him with guns and metal arm and cold intent, and there's no time to see what happens to the others as he wards off Bucky's attack. 

They are evenly matched, he knows that now from the two times they've fought before. But the difference now is that Bucky is aiming to kill, and Steve - Steve isn't. And that's enough to give Bucky the edge.

Bucky punches him, hard enough to send him crashing through a wall into the next room. Painfully Steve pulls himself to his feet, coughing from the dust, and only barely gets his shield up in time to fend off the next blow.

"I don't want to fight you," he says, between coughs. "Bucky-"

"That man is dead," Bucky says icily, pulling a knife from behind his back. "He's been dead for thirty years."

Steve shakes his head. "No," he says, stubbornly, "no. I don't believe that."

Because he has to believe that somewhere inside the Winter Soldier there's still a man that's worth saving, a man that he once loved. He has to keep believing that or else - what's the point? 

If he truly believed a good deed could be undone by a bad one, that saving one person's life could be cancelled out by killing another, then he'd be no better than HYDRA.

"Bucky," he says, parrying blow after blow, being driven backwards step by step, his body breaking down beneath the battering of that metal arm, the cuts of the knife. He stumbles, finally, and falls to his knees. "Bucky, don't do this-"

"Don't call me by that name!" For the first time Bucky sounds genuinely angry, and genuinely afraid, his eyes wild. He raises his arm for a killing blow - and then recoils, faltering, red appearing like a slash across his cheekbone.

For a moment Steve doesn't understand what's happened. Then he sees Peggy, with her gun raised in one steady hand, the other arm hanging limp by her side. "Get away from him," she says, steely. She fires again, and it hits Bucky in the shoulder, sending him off-balance. "I said, get away."

For one moment time stands still and Steve can see both of the awful possibilities, that Peggy could shoot Bucky right in the head and he'd drop, or that Bucky could block her bullets with his metal arm and then snap her neck with the other, and - 

But instead, Bucky snarls and moves backwards; and Peggy, though never wavering, holds her fire. They stare at one another, breathing fast, holding still.

"Bucky," Steve says, one more time. "Bucky."

Slowly Bucky looks down at him, and it's like a spell is broken. Teeth bared, blood smeared across his face, he flees, shoving Peggy to the floor as he goes. 

Steve hauls himself back to his feet, using his shield as leverage, and then goes to help Peggy and bind her shoulder. There's no sign of Fury or Pierce. Arms around one another, they limp out from the wreckage and outside into the night. 

When they make it out the door, they stand for a moment to catch their breaths before they go to find Morita. Up above, the moon hangs low.

"It's not over," Steve says. He looks out into the night, already wondering where he is, where he's heading, how he'll find him...

"No," Peggy says, but her gaze seems turned inward rather than out, her expression deeply thoughtful. "Not at all. It's only just begun."

*

Nick catches up with Pierce in the woods outside the compound. They're both out of bullets so he tackles Pierce up against a tree and holds a knife to his throat to keep him still.

"So this is it?" Pierce says, panting and exhausted, but still somehow managing to smile. "This is how you'll pay me back, Nick? An eye for an eye, isn't that how it goes?"

"You took more from me than my eye," he spits out, and he pushes the knife into Pierce's skin, hard enough to draw a bead of blood. "I trusted you, goddamnit. I trusted you!"

Pierce laughs breathlessly. "See if you make that mistake again, eh? So," and he drops his head back, pressing his skin up against the blade. "Go ahead, Nick. Kill me." 

Nick finds himself shaking. All it would take is one quick, easy - 

But he drops the knife, pulls back his fist, and punches Pierce instead. Roughly, he turns Pierce around and then binds his wrists behind his back, tying the knots hard enough to hurt. Then he gags him for good measure.

"Kill you? Nah. That'd be too easy," he says, growling the words into Pierce's ear. "I don't do easy. Learned that lesson early on."

And now he's learned another. 

*

The files they find at Camp Lehigh are enough to absolve Director Carter and Rogers; but they're also more than enough to put the whole of SHIELD on indefinite suspension. The Congressional hearings alone are likely to drag on for months, if not years.

For the most part, Nick doesn't have much to do with it. He gives his evidence in a closed hearing and is then dismissed. 

Weeks pass. He cleans his apartment, starts jogging, spends long hours at the gym. Turns out he _does_ look good with an eyepatch. 

From time to time he sees them on the news - Cap looking noble and pained, Carter cool and collected - but there's no word from either of them. He tells himself this is what he expected.

Then one day, when he's at his punching bag, he sees them coming from the corner of his eye. "Ma'am," he says, nodding. "Cap," he says, pulling off his glove to shake hands.

"How are you, Fury?" Carter says, as though they're here to make small talk. "Keeping busy?"

He shrugs, wary. "Not particularly. Why?"

"I thought you might like to know that a group of us are forming a task force. An intelligence agency, if you will. We'd welcome your input."

"That so?" Nick folds his arms. "Thought you already tried that one before. Didn't seem to work out too well, if I recall correctly."

She meets his eyes steadily. "All the better to learn from our mistakes. We can do better this time, if you'll help us."

Nick scowls at Rogers. "And you? What are you doing? Joining this so-called task force too?"

As he expects, Rogers shakes his head. "No. Had enough of that sort of thing for a lifetime. I have a different project - an old friend I need to look up." He smiles tentatively, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I could use a hand tracking him down."

After a moment, Nick sighs. "Ten minutes," he says, reaching for his towel. "Give me ten minutes, and then we'll grab some beers. I can see you've both got a lot to talk about."


End file.
